Spilt Ink
by Nova Hainn
Summary: Fakir is a Spinner. At least, that's what he's been told (despite the fact that he wasn't even on the list). And he sees the problems around him, the ones he should be solving - that rather tall shadow where Uzura's should be, Mytho living in his house when he should be a prince in a story, and a strange duck - but can he solve them? Spin them away? Maybe. Maybe not.
1. Chapter 1

He woke to the brushing of feathers across his face.

Squinting, he saw shades of gold; whether they were from the feathers or from the light he did not know.

When he opened his eyes fully, the feathers were gone.

Fakir let his arm fall across his eyes, and sighed.

* * *

_Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun._

He watched as she ran around the relatively empty park, drumming away as she always did. The sun was hiding behind the clouds today. Her shadow was unusually long, as it always was lately.

Long, and the wrong shape. While Uzura was short and pudgy, her shadow was tall and lean. It seemed to be wearing similarly-shaped clothes, but its head looked pointed at the top and round at the sides; some sort of bobbed haircut with the tips curled inwards. Another person entirely. The shadow of something forgotten.

Fakir frowned. The drumming was sometimes irritating, but it was familiar and it helped him keep track of her. It was much easier to watch over the little girl than to delve into his own thoughts.

_Or my own useless talent, as I've been hearing lately._

He idly wondered why everyone had to know everyone else's business. Was it because of the stories? True, people were accustomed to knowing almost everything about every character in a story, but that didn't mean it had to carry on into real life.

"_Or, as real as this is. No one can truly know what is real and what is not. This could simply be another story," _the voice in his head whispered. He didn't like the voice, it was more irritating than Uzura's drum on a bad day surrounded by nosy, whispering townspeople. It was a woman's voice; wise and elegant, regal even. This also annoyed him; a voice that sounded wise automatically registered as the voice of reason, but he often disagreed with her.

"Go away," he fiercely mumbled back, "This can't be a story."

"_How do you know that? Can you provide evidence? It could very well be a story."_

"Don't stress me out even more."

"Zura?"

Fakir looked up, startled out of his stupor. Uzura was standing in front of him, head tilted and repeatedly blinking her wide, wondering, consuming eyes. The shadow stretched and twisted behind her.

Fakir leant to the side to see it better. It seemed to be bending down. What looked like its hand grasped the side of its clothes as its legs bent; a curtsy, head tilted the same way as Uzura's. The shadow of a woman.

Before he could ponder on it at all, Uzura's face appeared a few centimetres from his own. She blinked owlishly at him.

"Fakir-zura? What are you looking at-zura?" she asked; somehow, there was a strange knowing tone in her voice. She seemed perceptive and omniscient as usual, despite her very young age.

Uzura was a strange girl. But she was sweet. Sweet company was needed in such a lonely, bitter, demanding world.

Fakir shook his head. "Nothing. I thought I saw something behind you." He rewarded her with a small smile; a rare sight recently. She tapped her drum in appreciation before dashing away, chasing after butterflies and flighty thoughts. Fakir sat back on the bench. His back ached from being bent forwards both at his desk and whenever he sat, hands clasped under his chin in thought. He tried to relax. It was hard. It was even harder with unwelcome company.

"One would think that you would be hard at work rather than frolicking at a park with some silly child." Fakir didn't need to turn around to know who it was. His fist clenched at his side at the snide remark about Uzura, but he remained composed otherwise.

"One would also think that a failure would find some other hobby now that his lifelong dream has been shattered. Do you enjoy rubbing salt into your own wounds, Autor?"

Fakir didn't particularly enjoy insulting people as others did. Defence mechanism. Autor was being _annoying_. He turned to observe the pianist.

Autor scowled, clearly incensed. "Rich of you to be calling _me_ a failure. The person who got the job can't even do it, and doesn't seem to care about it either. At least I wasn't qualified to begin with," under his breath he mumbled, "_supposedly_."

Fakir turned away again. The conversation was almost over.

"You're just a sore loser. What I do or don't do isn't your's or anyone else's business. Leave me be."

The conversation was over.

Fakir listened as Autor grumbled before turning and walking away, his footsteps light; he didn't feel defeated. Uzura was now tracing patterns in the earth with a stick, completely oblivious to Autor's coming and going. Fakir, on the other hand, became painfully aware of his surroundings. He noticed the people who strolled by, how they looked at him for a second too long and then tittered amongst themselves. How some older children would stop to watch him, frowning as if having come upon a new discovery. How elderly woman would look over and shake their heads.

Fakir sighed. He was very, very tired.

"Uzura," he called. She immediately hopped to attention, "Time to go home."

She moaned, wanting to stay and smashing her drum a few times to prove it but followed him nonetheless. It was true, it was time to go home. The sun was setting. It would be dark soon. When the dark came, it meant that bedtime was close by. Uzura only liked bedtime because Fakir read her stories. Otherwise, she preferred to stay awake.

Fakir watched as Uzura trotted ahead of him, skipping left and right in glee. These days, most of his time consisted of watching Uzura, and less of his time was spent bent over his desk.

He was very, very tired.

To the west, he could see the setting sun sending spears of gold into the swirling, coloured sky. Vaguely, he remembered the feathers. He had seen them in dreams before, and he was a little doubtful that they had actually been there; after all, they disappeared as soon as he opened his eyes completely. They could have been a sleepy hallucination of some sort. A pleasant one, but imagination nonetheless.

"_Maybe it was not so," _the voice mused, "_What if it was real?"_

"Can't be," he mumbled back, "Feathers don't just appear and disappear."

The voice sighed (that was new, usually it just spoke). He could almost imagine the shadow of a figure shaking their head. Speaking of which, Uzura's shadow stretched out behind her, remaining still despite her spins and hops in the air. Fakir watched it. Sometimes, it seemed like it was communicating with him, in a strange way. _To be honest, I should probably be a little more worried about it_.

"_Not necessarily. Maybe it is trying to help you."_

"It's latched onto Uzura, though. That's troublesome, it should leave her be."

"_Maybe she is important."_

"For what? She's important to the people around her, not to the balance of the universe or 'something bigger', or some twisted story plot."

The voice giggled; her laugh sounded breezy, breathless, like a windchime. Fakir frowned. "What's so funny?"

"_It matters not. Eventually, everything will be made clear."_

"Right… So you're making it all-"

"You know, talking to yourself is supposed to be the first sign of losing your mind."

Fakir whirled around, scathing remark ready on his tongue but bitten down when he caught sight of the person behind him. Fakir had to blink a few times; Mytho's pale hair shined in the light, and his eyes almost blended in with the spears of gold. The light humour in his comment dissipated before his almost expressionless face.

"Mytho-zura!" Uzura bounded up to him and leapt into his open arms. He spun her around, lifting her high into the air. She squealed in delight, "Look, look, Fakir-zura, I'm _flying_-zura!"

Fakir shook his head. Some things would never change no matter how many shadows twisted in the dark or how many voices cryptically whispered. No matter how many feathers appeared to him in his restless dreams.

* * *

"You know, Fakir, just because you're the Spinner doesn't mean you necessarily have to spin stories at all."

Fakir groaned inwardly; lately, everyone seemed to either be starting their sentences with "_you know"_, "_Fakir-zura!"_ (his personal favourite, no sarcasm) or some demeaning comment in an arrogant tone. Also, everyone seemed to have taken it upon themselves to lecture him, be it positively or negatively, but tell him what to do and what not to do nonetheless.

Karon continued, unaware of his (adopted) son's thoughts. "What I mean is, it may not be necessary for you to spin stories at all. Nowadays, all sorts of people write stories, not just Spinners, so there's no need to go around and write endings for every single one. Magic isn't as rampant either, so Spinners don't need to go fixing that too." He paused, sifting through tins in search for a new sheet of sandpaper. "You don't need to feel obligated to spin or worry about being unable to; these days Spinners are only really elected as a backup in case of an emergency, but there hasn't been an incident since Drosselmeyer's time. Everything should be fine. Don't let it bother you, and don't let people bother you either."

Fakir nodded, answering shortly, "Okay."

It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the support. He did. The few people who wished him luck and told him that everything would be alright, he was grateful to. But he did not need everyone to be talking about it all day in his ear; another reason why he was spending so much time with Uzura lately. She didn't care at all about Spinners, or magic, or ink, unless it was related to her beloved storybooks.

Neither did Mytho, really. He asked questions about it from time to time, but wasn't nagging him constantly about the topic. He didn't feel curiosity. He _couldn't_ feel curiosity.

Karon was wrong about not needing to feel obligated to spin. Karon did not know that Mytho's name originating from _mythos_ was not a coincidence, nor did he know that if he were to check Mytho's pulse he would not be able to find one. Spinners existed for times of need, to correct the imbalances between worlds with flowing ink; now was one of those times, but Fakir's ink was thick, blotchy and impossible to write with.

The chair squeaked against the wooden floor as he pushed away from the old table, heading for the stairs. He saw Karon turn towards him but continued anyway, climbing the stairs heavily. The rustling of sheets could be heard from Uzura's room; he smiled. Uzura was quite active in her sleep, and sometimes spoke fluent, comprehensible sentences which had varying degrees of sense. His own room was next door to hers.

However, he stopped in the doorway, glancing back to her open door. His right hand ached vaguely; he gripped it tightly.

"_Maybe there is something there," _the voice whispered.

_Go away_, he grumbled back in his head; it was impossible to know when Mytho would appear round the corner.

"_No." _she replied bluntly. Fakir frowned. The voice had never openly 'disobeyed' him; it generally left him alone once he was annoyed enough. Suddenly, she seemed to have acquired a(nother) mind of her own. "_Go and see."_

_Why?_ _What do you want with me?_

"_Go and see!" _It was a command, not a request.

In a heartbeat,

_the heart of a Spinner pumps ink through their veins_

he was standing in her room. The curtains were tossed open, moonlight streaming in,

_they can change anything, chain free will and bend nature to their bidding, the stormiest of days morph into the clearest of skies_

but despite the light's direction, the shadow stood next to the window rather than on the opposite wall behind Uzura's sprawled form. Fakir watched it warily; again, it was telling him something,

_sometimes they need a guide, a flicker of light or the twist of a shadow_

it was pointing at the open window. Slowly, careful of the creaky floorboards, he approached it, laying his hand on the sill and leaning out, instinctively looking to his right, towards the lake,

_to point them in the right direction, then Fate, or Instinct, or Coincidence, or Luck, will show them the way_

where Mytho stood, feeding some ducks;

_and one day, they will find what they need for the ink to flow, spill from the page, and smear reality into a sunlit fantasy_

Fakir watched him, wondering why he would be doing such a thing and why ducks would be awake at this time of the night. And, as usual, as if he _knew_, Mytho turned, blank, expressionless, empty, amber orbs, silver moonshine, and stared Fakir straight in the eye,

_until the fantasy is the reality and they are bound tightly, wisely, like the worn pages of an ancient book_

and Fakir knew _deep_ in the heaviest caverns of his soul that the time to act, to change, to _write_ was close by.

_filled with stories spun by those who write and those who are written._

Uzura turned, sheets bunching near her chest where she hugged them close. Fakir watched as Mytho threw the last of his bread to the ducks and walked back into the house, wondering if the person he was looking for was hiding in plain sight.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time in her (short) life, Uzura jolted awake.

She had felt a sharp poke on her shoulder, which was very strange on its own; Fakir, Karon and Mytho _never_ jabbed her, they generally talked to her or sometimes shook her (lightly). They woke her up in a nice way. Whoever it was did it in a mean way, interrupting her dream - now she couldn't remember it!

(And it had been a very nice dream too, she just knew it).

Whoever it was had also disappeared. There was no one in the room, the door was closed, the curtains neatly shut and swaying in the breeze from the open window, and there had been no creak of the floorboards to alert her of the exiting intruder.

(The creaky boards were her secret for knowing if anyone was sneaking into her room thinking she didn't know; she was quite sure none of the men had realised it yet, _silly_).

Rubbing her eyes vigorously, she jumped out of bed and dashed out of the room, down the stairs and out the back door. No one else seemed to be awake. Slowing down, she walked up to the edge of the lake; every morning, the ducks swam over to where she stood and she would feed them.

So there she stood, and waited. And waited. And waited.

"Hm," she huffed, "Where are the duckies-zura?"

It was clear that the ducks weren't coming, despite it being a completely normal day. Uzura turned away, and only then noticed the figure standing next to her. The person was strange, it looked like a shadow. The shadow person stood completely still, blocking out the light from the rising sun. Uzura wondered whether it was watching her.

"Hi-zura," she ventured. The shadow cocked its head, but otherwise stood still.

Uzura had never talked to her shadow before. She knew it was her shadow, she had seen it do strange things instead of copy her and she wondered why it didn't look like her. She had noticed Fakir watching it with a scary look on his face, too. _But it's my shadow, so it should be nice-zura. Maybe Fakir thinks it's bad-zura. I think it's fun to have a strange shadow-zura! Maybe it can be my friend-zura!_

As soon as the thought crossed her mind, the shadow shifted (she assumed it was turning around) and walked away from her. She watched it, doubting. When it turned and beckoned, her mind was made up.

_Fakir and Karon always say not to go with strangers, but this isn't really a stranger, it's my shadow-zura! Maybe it wants to show me where the ducks went-zura!_

She plodded after it, into the forest beyond the lake.

* * *

When Uzura left the house and decided that no one was awake, she had been mistaken. Fakir had woken at the crack of dawn, as soon as there was enough light to try and write. He had heard Uzura trot by and thunder down the stairs, but knew she liked to feed the ducks every morning so didn't dwell on it.

He had other, more pressing issues to worry about. Namely, spinning stories.

The person he was looking for had clearly not made an appearance in his life yet. _If they had, I'd know, right?_ Until they did, he had no choice but to continue writing about the people he _did_ know.

He wrote about Uzura. About Karon. About Mytho. About Raetsel. Even about _Autor_. He wrote about all the people he remembered knowing, or at least as many as he _could_ remember. He wrote and wrote and wrote.

His writing was completely lousy. Not only did sentences blur into each other and lose sense, any and all imagery was lost in darkness and soggy patches of ink on the page. To top it all off, the ink itself was thick, blotchy, and almost impossible to write with smoothly. Fakir had to resist the urge to throw the bottle at the wall.

Slamming the quill onto the desk, he sat back and glared at the (very messy) page in front of him. Clearly, he would be unable to write _anything_ decent until he met this person, and in the meantime the world and almost everyone in it scoffed at him, deeming him useless and unworthy of his title. It wasn't as if he'd _asked_ for it, or had any choice in the matter. He let his head fall back and stared dejectedly at the ceiling. There was nothing he could do.

His hand bled slowly onto the floorboards.

Fakir had come to ignore the bloodstains on and around his desk. There was nothing he could do about them (was there anything he could do something about?) as they wouldn't go out no matter how many times he scrubbed them and new ones would be made each time he wrote. The wound no longer pained him either. Like so many things in his life, it was easier to just ignore the issue. Instead, he bandaged his hand and hid away his troubles.

He wondered what his person would be like, and what they would be to him. Being the _only_ person in any world that he could write about or with, they were likely to be important to him. Fakir wasn't sentimental, and he didn't like dealing with emotions and such sappy things, but he couldn't help but fall into thought.

(The golden feathers again floated into his mind. Could they be related to the person?)

His person. _His_ person. Such a statement either sounded like they belonged to him or that there was some sort of romance, both of which he shook his head to vigourously. The person could be either a family member, friend, significant other, or any other type of relationship that existed; none of that soulmate mush that some of his female classmates often gushed about.

A Spinner and their Vessel were a force to be dealt with. Fakir had read all sorts of books on the topic, naturally, but some aspects of the bonds between Spinner and Vessel still baffled him. If the Spinner could only write about their Vessel, how were they supposed to assist in situations that the Vessel was completely secluded from? Was it about the Vessel being present? Using the Vessel's blood as well as the Spinner's? A special writing instrument to complement the Spinner's ink? Despite the amount of Spinners that had existed over the years, it seemed that the only people who knew the secrets of the art were those who could perform it. And what if a Spinner never met their Vessel, or if the Vessel died-

"_FAKIR-ZURA!_" a shriek came from outside.

Fakir jumped towards the window, almost falling out with the momentum. He frantically glanced around before catching sight of Uzura near the lake. She was alternating between waving her little arms and slamming on her drum. The shadow stood behind her, still as a statue. Calm.

Fakir couldn't shake the feeling that its job, whatever it was, had been completed.

"What?! What's going on?!" he shouted back.

Uzura hopped hurriedly on the spot. "Come _quick_-zura! It won't move at all-zura!" Instead of waiting, she spun on her heel and dashed straight into the forest, the shadow close behind.

Fakir sprinted through the house and after her, hoping she wasn't taking an overly complicated route to where whatever "won't move at all" was. The forest wasn't particularly dark, but it was thick and easy to get lost in. Fortunately, he didn't need to run far; Uzura was just inside the line of trees, kneeling on the floor and bent forwards. Fakir skidded around her, looking down at the ground where she held a small duck in her lap.

Its feathers were a bright yellow, some sticking straight up at the top of its little head. They were ruffled, and it lay painfully still. Uzura looked up him, eyes brimming with tears. She held the duck up to him. "Help it-zura." Her voice was strangely empty, and completely calm. Fakir frowned as he took it and and held it carefully in his arms. He shook it slightly, watching for a reaction.

There was movement behind its eyelids.

"It's alive," he breathed. Uzura seemed to have caught the statement; she jumped up immediately, all but climbed up his legs and latched onto his right arm, peering over his shoulder at the duck. It continued to lie unmoving, but it was _alive_.

"It's okay-zura!" Uzura looked ready to burst into tears. "Can we-"

"Yeah, we can take it home," Fakir said quietly, "We can't just leave it out here, unconscious. We can let it go when it wakes up and gets better."

Uzura nodded vigorously, squealing in her usual manner. Fakir smiled; she seemed to be back to her usual self.

As they walked back to the house, neither of them noticed the shadow up against a tree; its limbs fell limp like a puppet's before disappearing upwards and fading from sight.

* * *

He was lying in a field of long grass, that much was certain. The long blades brushed him in the wind, and shadows danced across his face; the sun's heat shifted and so didn't bother him. His eyes were closed tight, and he didn't seem to have the energy to open them. He frowned. _Not fair, I should be able to control things in a dream._

Something shifted next to him. The grass rustled at the disturbance. Someone was there.

"...Uzura?" he ventured.

The person laughed; it was a girl, her laughter sounded like a small bell, a giggle. "Nope." She sounded young, and her voice was a little high-pitched (a _teeny_ bit) but not unpleasantly so. It sounded a little odd. Easily recognisable.

It was not someone he knew.

Fakir wasn't the type to beat around the bush. "Who are you?"

She hummed, "_You_ should introduce yourself first, if you're going to ask for _my_ name."

He smirked, "No, I don't think I will."

She shifted again, and grumbled, "Meanie."

They lapsed into silence. Fakir was confused, but the situation wasn't entirely unpleasant, and it was just a dream. A dream couldn't hurt him. At first, he had expected it to be the darn voice in his head, invading his sleep with her cryptic words, so he was glad to have _this_ company instead.

The sun was warm on his face. He felt sleepy.

"Don't you think it's strange that we don't know each other, but here we are?" she asked suddenly. Fakir turned towards her voice.

"I can't see you. Can you see me?"

"Not fair to answer a question with a question, but the answer is no. And I don't recognise your voice…"

"Then, I guess it's a lot less strange than if only one of us recognised the other."

She hummed again, "True."

What felt like a few minutes passed. Fakir sat up, eyes still closed (_really not fair_). He looked back to where he thought the girl's head approximately was, though it didn't really matter because she couldn't see him either. He felt like there was something he wanted to say, something he was forgetting that seemed relatively important. _It can't be that important if I've forgotten it._

Someone was shaking his shoulder now, and there was a weight on his chest. It seemed like someone was trying to wake him up.

"I think I have to go now." He waited for a reply, but there was none. He frowned. "Hello? You still there?"

She seemed to have disappeared. He reached out; his hand touched wood. Feathers were brushing his face now, and whoever was shaking his shoulder seemed to be talking as well. _Time to wake up_.

He opened his eyes. He was on his bed again, Uzura was peering over his shoulder and there was a duck staring at him from its perch on his chest. He stared back at it; it's eyes were wide, and a startling shade of blue.

"Duckie is awake-zura~!" Uzura sang, clapping her hands.

"I can see that. When did it wake up?"

"_She_ woke up just now-zura."

"She? How do you know?"

"I asked her-zura. She nodded when I asked if she's a girl-zura. A girl like me-zura~!" she sang again.

Fakir nodded, letting the matter slide; it didn't matter, anyhow. He sat up slowly, the duck sliding into his lap as he crossed his legs. He idly poked the long, protruding feather.

"Well, then. Since _she's_ better, I guess it's time to let her go."

Fakir winced as Uzura shrieked, "No-zura! I want her to _stay_-zura!"

"We can leave her in the lake. Maybe she'll stay."

"I want her to stay _here_-zura!"

"We can't force her, Uzura. She's a wild animal, she's supposed to be free."

"But she _wants_ to _stay_-zura!"

Fakir couldn't help but scoff. "Did she tell you that as well?"

Uzura nodded vigorously. Fakir glared back; this was getting nowhere. The duck wriggled in his lap, poking his stomach with her bill. She was looking up at him. She was trying to get his _attention_.

_She does seem to be intelligent for a duck_, he thought.

"_You should try talking to her,"_ the voice interrupted. Fakir frowned.

_Go away, I'm busy._

"_Uzura may be right. Try."_

He grumbled unintelligibly, then, _Fine. Annoying._

The duck was still staring up at him. Somehow, her expression looked quizzical. "Quack?" Even her quacking sounded like a question.

He heaved a long sigh; this would be awkward, and embarrassing if someone happened to walk in. "Uzura says you understand her."

There was a pause, then she _nodded_. Fakir almost fell over in shock, but continued in what he hoped was a level tone. "And she says you want to stay."

She nodded again, twice this time. _A vigorous yes._

"Fine," he sighed after a beat, "She can stay if she wants." Uzura cheered loudly and shrilly, jumping on the bed and bouncing the mattress. "But…" She paused her hopping. Fakir shifted to regain his balance, keeping hold of the duck in his lap. "She'll need a name. I'm not going to call her "she" or "the duck" all the time. It's weird."

"That's easy-zura!" Uzura said cheerily, tapping her drum a few times. "Her name is Duckie-zura!"

Fakir watched her placidly, "I am _not_ saying _Duckie_ more than just this once." He absentmindedly poked the large feather again. "Duck. How about Duck?"

"Duck for short-zura!"

"Duckie would be the nickname version of Duck though."

"Duck for short-zura!"

"Uzura-"

"Duck for short-zura!"

"FINE!" he yelled over her combined shouts and drumming, "Duck for short. It doesn't matter anyway." He lifted Duck out of his lap, holding her in both hands to face him. "That sound good to you?"

She looked to the side, seemingly in thought, before nodding and - dare he say it - smiling (or as much as a duck _could_ smile, anyhow). He put her on the bed. She stood, ruffled her feathers and waddled towards Uzura's outstretched arms.

"Guess that's a yes, then."

* * *

With all the kerfuffle about intelligent ducks and their names, he had completely forgotten about his dream. Now, as Duck swam around the lake, keeping close to the edge so that Uzura could run after her, he laid in the grass (just like in the dream, except the grass here was short) and pondered the strange, mysterious girl.

She had seemed nice enough, but the way she talked felt as if she too was someone having a dream. He frowned for the millionth time that day. Prophetic dreams were not unheard of, especially for Spinners; was she someone he would meet at some point? Someone of importance? His eyes widened as he watched the clouds roll by. Could she be his Vessel?

Vessel. His Vessel. He didn't like the word. Spinner described a person who spun. Vessel sounded more like an object, something to contain his spinning powers. Rather, they were people who assisted with spinning, though unknown how, or were spun themselves. A Spun would sound odd though. _I guess Vessel makes sense, even if I don't like how it sounds_. _This must be what Raetsel means when she says that I'm "never satisfied with a simple explanation. Tch._ A Vessel was someone who helped a Spinner, one way or another. _Helper does sound better. I'll say Helper_.

It was frustrating that he hadn't been able to look at her, though it was nice to know that she also hadn't been able to see him either. Though… _I should've asked her name. I was going to, but then she disappeared._ Had she, assuming that she indeed was a real person, woken up at that moment?

"_You should have asked for her name,"_ the voice chided lightly.

"Names, names," he mumbled, "Everything is about names lately. What's yours, then?"

The voice hummed, "_You will discover it in due time."_

"Don't expect me to ask a question that no one wants to answer. And I _did_ ask her who she was, but she chose not to answer."

"_Someone's name is not the same as who they are. A name does not make a person, it is only the label by which they are known."_

"Sometimes they do," Fakir whispered solemnly, "Sometimes what someone is called can shape their entire life."

The voice paused. He wondered whether it had gone again, a little disappointed. Despite her refusal to answer any and all questions, it was a little comforting to know that someone understood what was whirring through his mind. Someone knew exactly what he was thinking and why. Although that seemed slightly ominous, it was also a small piece of salvation. He had hoped she would say something that would annoy him and distract him from his problems.

"_A name, or a description, can only shape you if you let it do so," _she said in a low hum, "_May those who accept their fate be granted happiness."_

Fakir's breath caught, "What about those who defy it?"

There was a long pause. Then-

"_Glory to those who defy their fate."_

She was gone. He knew she was the moment she stopped speaking. He didn't know whether she would come back.

* * *

Uzura had prepared a small "bed" for Duck that was worthy of a feathery queen. She had taken the largest cushion from downstairs, put it in Fakir's room (where it had been agreed that she would be staying), and wrapped it in a thin, silky blanket. Then, when Duck had settled down for the night, ruffling her feathers and snuggling into the cushion, Uzura covered her with another blanket; a thicker, cozier one this time. She even left her a bowl of water nearby ("_Just in case she gets thirsty-zura!_"). Despite all this, she still seemed unsatisfied with her work.

"Something is missing-zura," she pondered in a serious voice. Fakir stayed silent to not betray his laughter; a serious Uzura was an Uzura that he simply could not take seriously (ironically), on any day of the week. She looked around the room, then back at Duck. Duck gestured with her wing, waving it back and forth repeatedly.

"I think she likes it just fine," said Fakir. Duck nodded.

"No-zura," she mumbled, "Something more-zura… _Oh!_"

Fakir jumped at the sudden exclamation as Uzura dashed from the room. Duck looked at him quizzically; he shrugged at her. In the hallway, the pitter-patter of stormy footsteps was heard before Uzura burst in again, holding a leather-bound book in her hands. Fakir sighed at the sight; he knew where this was going.

"A _story_-zura!" Uzura shrieked, hopping on the spot with the book held above her head, "Bedtime story-zura!"

"Fine," Fakir sighed, "But this'll be for you too; I'm not reading two stories every day."

"Okay-zura!"

Fakir sat on the floor next to Duck's makeshift bed, cross-legged. Uzura sat on his right, leaning into him and peering at the book in his hands. Duck shimmied her way out of her blanket and plodded down, waddling towards them and hopping onto his leg. She too peered at the book as he turned it over in his hands, taking in the worn binding. He frowned.

"_The Prince and The Raven_? Again?"

Uzura nodded, her eyes shining, "Silly Fakir-zura! Duckie needs to know about Mytho if she wants to stay-zura!"

"Quack?" Again, it sounded like a question. Duck had deposited herself in Fakir's lap, between him and the book, and had turned to look at him with questioning eyes.

He patted her head, "You'll see. Pay attention."

He cleared his throat, and began.

"_Far from our simple-minded civilisation, there once existed another land; a land of royalty, and of magic. In this land, there lived a prince, who loved everyone and was loved by everyone. The people of this land were also simple-minded, but in a different way; they believed in ultimate peace and never suspected of the shadows that lurked at the end of darkened alleyways._"

Duck shifted in his lap, leaning towards the book as if she were reading along with him. Uzura watched her attentively. Fakir absentmindedly stroked her yellow feathers, and continued.

"_The prince was a man of his people. He cared for them as a true ruler should, and as often as his Council allowed him (considering the mountain of work that there was always to be done) he would venture into the kingdom accompanied by his most faithful knight and friend. Together, they walked through the streets, conversed with the civilians of their troubles and their wishes, took note of any issues that needed to be resolved, and enjoyed themselves._

_However, as we know and those simple-minded people were to find out, all good things must come to an end._"

Uzura leaned in, humming in excitement; Duck remained still as stone.

"_For outside the kingdom, there lived a monstrous Raven. He had been locked away by the prince's ancestors millennia before, but the enchantment had worn away over time, assisted by the persistent pecking of ever-faithful crows. The Raven burst out of his cage in the mountains, but was unable to call upon his full power, so he set out to find answers, tearing apart anyone or anything that stood in his path._

"_This is not a fairytale, with hope and happiness for all; that is why we begin after the Raven's escape from his hidden prison, and not before. There is no merit in describing and remembering happier times when the now is full of pain and suffering, and the future is unknown and out of anyone's control. No, I will show you the horrors that occurred in that faraway, magical land, not sparing a single detail for the sake of softening the sharp fall into despair._

"_This is the story of a Prince, a Raven, and their battle which tore the earth apart. Because not all faraway lands are the homes of new beginnings and wonderful adventures, and the unknown is cast in shadows for a reason._"

Instead of turning the page, Fakir lifted the book (so as to not smack Duck's bill) and rapidly flicked through the pages. Duck twisted in his lap, quacking aggressively. Fakir ignored her until he set the book in front of her again; the page he was on was past halfway through it.

"Qua?"

"That was the prologue," Fakir explained patiently, wondering why he was explaining such a thing to a duck, no matter how intelligent she was, "Most of the book is, as the prologue said, about the war and the atrocities committed by the Raven, and the prince's fight against him. Unfortunately, the amount of detail isn't exactly… appropriate for some ears," he tugged on Uzura's ear playfully. She giggled.

"Fakir promised he'd read me the whole book when I get older-zura. It's too scary for me now, he says-zura."

Duck nodded in understanding.

"I can read it to you later, Duck, but for now all you need to know is that the Raven destroys lots of things and that the prince and his knight, along with the rest of the kingdom are trying to fight him."

He cleared his throat again, shifting the book and smoothing the page, before continuing.

"_It was_-"

"Reading a bedtime story?"

The voice came from the now-open door, and belonged to Mytho. He was watching them placidly, eyes glancing over Uzura, Duck and the book before resting on Fakir. The latter watched him warily; how long had he been standing there? _Not long, I would've noticed_. Uzura looked between them, a rare wary look on her face.

"Yes-zura," she said slowly.

"What story is it?" Mytho said evenly, walking into the room and trying to peer at the old pages. Fakir snapped the book shut, almost catching Duck's bill. He frowned up at Mytho, who towered over him.

"As you know, it's _The Prince and The Raven_," Fakir said, an edge to his voice. He took a deep breath, predicting the coming argument and slowly pulling Duck closer to his stomach. She shifted, looking up at him. Uzura's hands tightened around his arm.

"I see. Can I listen too?"

Fakir's frown molded into a glare. Curiosity was not within Mytho's nonexistent emotional capacity, but somehow he always exhibited the feeling in relation to the book clutched tightly in his hands. He squeezed it.

"You know you can't. You haven't reached this part of the story yet, so you can't know what happens; it could affect how the story ends and that'd be a problem," at Mytho's slight narrowing of the eyes, he added, "It's bad enough that you're here to begin with."

For a second, Fakir could have sworn that Mytho's eyes flashed a soft pink colour; soft, but malicious, somehow. But it was gone, and after seeing so many strange things lately he decided to ignore it. Mytho maintained almost uncomfortable eye contact as he bent over, his hands slowly closing around the top of the book. Fakir's glare increased in intensity as he tugged it towards him, but Mytho's grip was steadfast.

"The story doesn't have an ending, Fakir. You know that. That's what _you're_ here for. Though admittedly," he glanced to the side, a wry _smile_ on his face (_how?_), "you haven't been doing a very good job so far. Or any at all, for that matter."

Fakir leant back as if he had been punched in the gut, the breath knocked out of him. He almost visibly deflated at the insult.

Mytho was usually exactly as he was described in the story, despite his lack of emotions. However, he remained cordial and somewhat understanding, as well as pleasant to be around. Even when the subject of the book was breached, he simply nodded and accepted the reality of the situation. Even Uzura looked stricken. Duck was turning back and forth between the two; she was snuggling into Fakir with an odd look on her face when she turned to Mytho.

Fakir stared at Mytho in silence. The seconds ticked by. Small hands closed around the book, and tugged. The two men let go as Uzura hugged it close to her chest.

"That's enough story for today-zura. We read the whole prologue, and I'm tired-zura; Duckie is tired too-zura. Right, Duckie-zura?"

Duck blinked before nodding vigourously, quacking in agreement. Uzura nodded as well, rolling on the balls of her feet. She looked at Fakir, a pleading look in her eyes. "Tuck me in-zura?"

Fakir stared at Mytho again. He was still watching him, though his look was placid again rather than malicious. Slowly, Fakir tore his eyes away, nodding mutely at her. She dashed away as if burned, Fakir following closely and leaving Mytho behind. When he reached her room, she was already lying in her bed, the covers pulled up to her chin, her eyes appearing even larger than usual.

He deposited Duck on the bed, idly tucking in the covers as she waddled towards Uzura's head. He looked up to see her brushing her wing across her forehead before pecking her cheek with her bill. She turned to him as if for assurance; he nodded. She quacked quietly and waddled away again, flapping noisily onto her perch on his shoulder.

"'Night, Uzura," he said quietly, repeating the action of brushing her hair across her forehead.

"Goodnight, Fakir-zura. Please don't fight with Mytho-zura," she mumbled quietly. Fakir watched her, before sighing.

"I'll try."


	3. Chapter 3

_Tap. Tap. Tap_. _Tap tap tap. Tap._

Fakir finally let go of the breath he had been holding (or, well, _felt_ he had been holding) in a long, tired sigh. Tapping the end of the quill against his desk rhythmically, he stared at the empty piece of parchment before him, not yet having bothered to attain any form of ink. Honestly, he didn't feel like writing at all, but he felt obligated to try. The voice didn't offer an opinion as it usually would, either.

Next to him, on the table, Duck sat also staring at the blank page. She shifted a few times before looking up at him, her head cocked to the side in a silent question.

Or not. "Qua?"

Fakir put the quill down, sitting back and sighing (again). He watched as she stood up and waddled to the edge of the table before her legs disappeared in feathers as she sat down again. The large feather at the top of her head bobbed energetically.

"I'm a writer," he started, then snorted, "or I call myself that. I'm _supposed_ to write, it's my job, but I can't."

Duck nodded in understanding, but again let her head fall to the side in question. He thumped the table with his right hand, letting it rest there and staring at the bandage. Duck jumped up, poking it and frantically flapping her wings. "Qua qua quack!"

Fakir smiled down at her. "It's fine, it's meant to be like that." Another quizzical look. Another sigh. "You wouldn't happen to know what a Spinner is, would you?" _I can't believe I'm asking a duck this kind of question. It's surprising that she even knows what _writing _is, let alone a Spinner. She seemed to pay attention to the story, though she may just have been listening to the talking rather than the words_.

Duck nodded. Fakir's balance slipped and he tumbled right out of his seat.

His hands slammed on the table as he pulled himself up. "You do?!" She nodded again. Fakir slid into the chair, dusting himself off. "Do you know anything other than their basic function?"

She paused, looking around in thought, before nodding and shaking her head. _A maybe._

"Vessels?" A nod.

"Spinning?" A nod.

"Story properties and ink?" A pause, and a shake of the head.

Fakir hummed. "Well, simply put, stories a like another dimension or a parallel universe to ours; they exist but cannot be accessed, usually, but are not simply fiction as was thought in ancient times."

Duck nodded in response, looking almost haughty.

"That you knew?"

"Qua!" She almost sounded proud of herself.

"Cheeky," he grumbled, "Anyway, that's what Spinners are for. We make sure that stories end as they should, that all ends are adequately tied as happily as possible, though it can't always be the case, and deal with any story-related mishaps or incidents."

She pointed at him, then pecked the bandage, narrowing her eyes. He smiled.

"Yes, yes, I'm getting onto that. I'm actually a Spinner myself-" she quacked in appreciation, bobbing around like a yellow balloon, "-and this wound is what I use to spin." He pulled an inkwell down from the shelf; it was empty, and made of clear glass, almost completely covered with jewels placed in a swirling, twisting sort of pattern. He pulled off the lid and slowly unwrapped the bandage from his hand. Duck watched attentively. Keeping his hand tilted palm-up, he held it over the inkwell and turned it sharply. Blood flowed into it, quickly and evenly, spilling as if the wound had been inflicted yesterday.

"Qua qua qua qua qua qua quack?!" Duck was flapping anxiously again.

"Relax," Fakir murmured, patting her head, "That's been there for ages. It's supposed to stay open, see?" he pointed at the inkwell. Inside, the blood was no longer scarlet, but looked black. "My blood becomes the ink, and that's why I'm a Spinner. For now, I have to use this particular inkwell because I'm new to it, but eventually I should be able to do it with anything." He retracted his hand and wrapped it again, Duck watching his every move carefully. Pushing the paper and quill back, he leant forwards and rested his head on his arms, watching Duck as she inspected the ink, eyes narrowed. She waddled towards the stack of papers on the shelf, pointing at them angrily with her wing.

"Yeah, I wrote those when I was younger."

She jabbed them again. It was Fakir's turn to stare at her quizzically. She rolled her eyes and quacked (it almost sounded like a tut); she pointed at the stack, at the empty page, at the ink, and finally at him.

He shifted in the chair, "You think I can write because I used to do it just fine?" She wasn't the first who had told him so. "Spinning isn't like normal writing; I can't just do it. I need a Vessel. And before you ask, I haven't met mine yet."

She stomped her webbed foot, biting the quill and throwing it at him. He swatted it away. "I _can't_. I don't really feel like it either."

She stomped again, before fluttering down onto her cushion and burrowing into the covers, facing away from him with a bristly "Quack!"

He glared at her, "What _your_ problem?" When she didn't respond, he too turned away. "Fine, then. Don't know why I'm talking to a duck to begin with." She was almost worse than Raetsel on a bad day.

Turning away and tuning her shuffling out, he focused on the paper in front of him. He picked up the discarded quill, dipped it in the ink (trying to ignore how painfully thick and blotchy it was) and let it hang over the page. The ink slowly oozed, giving him time to think, but eventually it splotched onto the paper, messily bleeding into it. _Nothing. Absolutely nothing. What am I even supposed to write to begin with? How am I supposed to transport Mytho back into his story, and _safely_?_

By the second splotch, he had already given up, dropping the quill (it made a large stain on the paper, which now looked flimsy and completely useless) and fell back again, looking up at the ceiling in defeat. And he _hated_ himself for it.

It was his _job_, a role that many others _dreamed_ of, and here he was wasting it away by ignoring his problems and hardly trying. What did it matter that he didn't have a Vessel yet? He could still practise, even if he wasn't really spinning anything. _But it's not that easy_, was the thought that floated into his mind. He slammed his fist onto the desk. _Again_, he was making excuses for himself. _I can't write, I can't spin, I can't even do what Karon does despite the amount of times he tried to teach me._

He had managed to keep his spirit afloat for a few years, focusing on the simple obligation of doing well at school and behaving himself, staying out of trouble. But Fakir knew that he was sinking into despair no matter how many times he tried to beat the water, so much so that even a _duck_ had more faith in him that he did in himself. _I really am pathetic_.

Suddenly, he became aware of a thudding against his chair; he twisted around to see Duck pushing a book against it, ruffling her feathers in all directions and slipping on the floorboards trying to get his attention. Fakir blinked before swooping down and pulling both her and the book into his arms, then depositing them on the table.

"_Idiot_," he chastised, "If you wanted to get my attention you should've quacked or something, not smacked repeatedly into a book." His tone was harsh, but he hoped that his eyes were soft; she seemed to notice such things. She opened her bill to quack at him but instead remained silent, bobbing around haughtily. Fakir hummed slightly, another rare smile gracing his features as he turned the book over. His eyes widened. It was _The Prince and The Raven_.

"This? You want me to read it to you?" Duck nodded, making herself comfortable on the ruined piece of parchment and looking up at him almost beseechingly. He opened the book to the first chapter and placed it upright against the wall so that she could see it easily.

"Okay. _Chapter One_-"

"Quack!" Duck jumped up, pushing against the pages with her bill so that they turned, though the book almost toppled right onto her. He sighed, turning to where he had intended to read from with Uzura earlier.

"From here? You don't want to read the other bit now that Uzura isn't around?"

She raised her wing, waving the tip in a circular motion. "Another time?" She nodded. "Fine, then. Guess I'll read from here."

"_It was strange, put simply, to meet the person who had been carrying his heart all this time; these were Prince Siegfried's thoughts on the journey to the border beyond the Feathered Wasteland, where Princess Tutu awaited them._

"_He and Lohengrin rode on horseback, carrying only the necessary supplies; they did not plan to sleep out or stay the night anywhere, and instead were going to meet her, retrieve his heart, bid her farewell and send her home safely, and ride straight back to the palace no matter how long it took. Staying out was much too dangerous at this stage, particularly on the way back, and despite his eagerness to meet Princess Tutu after all he had heard both through rumours and through Lohengrin, he knew that keeping her too long only increased the danger their presence chained her in. The whole reason for this journey was to keep her out of danger; the crow attacks in the neighbouring kingdom had increased tenfold, and it was clear that the Raven knew exactly where Siegfried's heart was being hidden away and lovingly cared for. He had no choice, despite the beseeching of his council, but to take his heart back and keep it where it belonged._

"_Siegfried sighed. Lohengrin seemed to know what he was thinking. "Do not fret, old friend," he said. Despite his young age, he somehow always managed to sound as wise as the oldest of magicians. "It is not your fault that there have been attacks in Tutu's kingdom. You should have seen the explosion that was Tutu's wrath at being told that you were to retrieve your heart; she almost burst into tears by the end of her tirade on why that was a most _terrible _idea. Evidently, she felt that it was her fault. Before you ask, I _did _attempt to convince her that is most certainly was _not _her fault that her kingdom was being attacked by crows, and that it had nothing to do with your heart not being well protected enough, but she wouldn't hear any of it. Both of you are quite similar, considering you have never had any sort of contact, and I have no clue what to do with either of you."_

"_He hummed, pondering Lohengrin's words. The knight was always full of praise for Tutu, who he called by her name only (just like himself), and who he seemed to have developed a close relationship with, no doubt after so many visits to check on Siegfried's heart. Despite not having it, Siegfried could still somewhat feel, though less because of how things affected him immediately and more due to how he rationalised things; how he felt was usually how he knew he would feel, if he had a heart. It bothered him that he could not connect as well with his people without it, and he would be glad to have it back despite the dangers posed._

"_Siegfried nodded solemnly, "I suppose you are right. You seem to get along well with the princess." He looked around absentmindedly, noting the bleakness of the landscape around him. The Feathered Wasteland was exactly as it's name described; miles of grey, dead earth from which protruded grey, dead trees, trees which were coated in black crow's feathers, as this was where they had lived throughout the Raven's imprisonment. Back then, travelling through the Wasteland was like signing one's own death sentence; trading caravans and other travellers had to go around it, prolonging the journey many days, and those who dared to brave the crows were either never seen again or barely escaped with their lives (though, more often than not, they would not be able to escape with _all _of their limbs)._

"_The horses trotted on at a brisk but unagitated pace. "Yes," Lohengrin replied, "I have gotten to know her quite well throughout my visits. She insists on personally attending to guests at the palace, the poor girl; she has the time, as her council hardly let her participate in government affairs. I find it quite pathetic of them; it is as if they don't accept her as their ruler."_

"_Siegfried turned to him, "Just because she is a woman? That is quite low of them."_

""_Unfortunately that is the case. Though," Lohengrin turned to him, a sly look on his face, "I did once threaten to run them through with my sword if they continued to treat her in such a way. Of course, I would never have done so, but the old men were trembling in their boots. It was quite entertaining, and it made Tutu laugh when I told her, even if she did hit my shoulder afterwards. I _did _deserve the telling off, I suppose."_

"_Lohengrin continued to talk about his adventures with the princess, not noticing the knowing look on Siegfried's face. Siegfried watched him carefully, observing his changes in tone and expression while he babbled. Finally, he said, "Lohengrin, do you love Princess Tutu?"_

"_Alas, the knight was caught completely off-guard by the question. True, he had sometimes heard murmurings between servants and nobles alike of the possibility of there being something between the princess and himself, but he had never paid them any heed. Now, his prince was asking him as well. He looked forward, the smile melting off his face as he sank into thought. Siegfried also faced forward again, making sure to pay extra close attention to their surroundings to give Lohengrin time to think._

"_Lohengrin, looking slightly bemused, turned to him, "I-"_

"_There was a loud _caw _as hoards of crows swooped down upon them, cutting off Lohengrin's sentence with their sharp, glinting beaks and talons. The two friends, startled into attention, drew their swords and swatted at them, urging their horses into a gallop as they did. The black cloud followed them, yearning for their blood and their hearts, cawing noisily. They leant forwards on their horses to reduce resistance, hoping to outrun the crows. True, the horses were faster, but when the gap between them finally grew, red clouds rolled over and the blackest of wings spread across the sky, blocking out the sunlight and any form of hope; the Raven himself._

"_Unlike the usual high-pitched caws, the Raven's voice was deep and boomed along the earth like thunder. The cloud of crows stopped behind them, blocking their escape._

"_They had ridden right into their trap, talking of hearts and foreign princesses._

""_I did not expect to catch you so easily, prince," the Raven said ominously, chuckling, "You seem to have lost your touch, that fairytale magic that meant that you always won." The crows cackled in glee behind them._

"_Siegfried glared up at him, "Begone, Raven! My heart is not with me here, you are wasting your time." But that was a bluff, of course; they were almost at the border, which meant that Princess Tutu was nearby. His grip tightened around his sword._

"_The Raven laughed again. "Surely you jest, prince. I know that the princess who cares for your heart is nearby, I have eyes and ears _everywhere_. And when I do find her…" he turned in the air, looking out over the border. Siegfried almost choked, Lohengrin growled next to him; the Raven knew _exactly _where Princess Tutu was, "When I find her, I will rip her to shreds and take it from her. A shame, really; she _was _quite _pretty."

"_Lohengrin leapt off his horse and high into the air with a loud cry, "You keep your filthy claws _away _from her, you vile creature!" He slashed at the Raven, who simply flew backwards to evade the blade. Lohengrin had forgotten that the sky was the Raven's dominion, and therein lay the foundations for his demise._

"_For as he fell through the air, with only his sword to defend himself but no way of turning with enough of force to use it, the Raven swooped down upon him and tore his torso in half. Siegfried watched with a faint feeling of horror as his closest friend slammed headfirst into the crumbling earth, the resounding _crack _still ringing in the air even as the dust settled._

"_Lohengrin the Brave. Lohengrin the Wise._

"_Lohengrin the Fool._

"_The intense colour of the clouds faded back to a dull grey as the Raven folded his wings and disappeared with a loud cawing cackle. Siegfried hardly noticed as he dashed forwards to where Lohengrin lay motionless. Creeping closer, he peered at the knight, squinting at the sight. Lohengrin's upper half had been cleanly ripped apart, blood spilling out like water from a broken dam. Siegfried could hardly tell where muscle and bone ended and skin began; he wanted to reach forwards, to touch him, to try to fruitlessly wake him up and reassure him that it would be okay, that he would heal and be fine, to tell him that Princess Tutu was waiting for them and that she-_

""_Lohen?" The voice was sweet, high-pitched, and wobbled precariously. Siegfried slowly turned, wincing. Behind him, just over the border between kingdoms, stood a woman - Princess Tutu herself. He noted her expression of anguished shock, her trembling bottom lip and her wide, wide, wide eyes; however, his focus shifted to her right hand. She was reaching out, fingers clutching at the air shakily as if gripping an invisible hand. She was not reaching towards Lohengrin's body on the ground, despite her eyes being chained to him. She was reaching up into the air, where the Raven had just been. Where Lohengrin had just been._

"_Siegfried's blood ran cold. She had seen it happen. She had seen Lohengrin's futile attempt to defend her, and had been intending to call out to him as he was torn asunder._

"_She seemed frozen in place, so Siegfried jolted when she ran forward, almost tripping over the hem of her billowing cloak in her hurry to reach them. She slid the final few centimetres, gathering Lohengrin's halves in her shaking arms, trying to keep him together and not doing very well. She was mumbling but could not seem to form any sentences; her voice continuously broke as she sobbed over his limp form. The blood was seeping into her clothes, decorating her sleeves with scarlet flowers. She sniffled pitifully._"

Fakir paused in his reading, looking down at Duck, who had remained still and silent as stone throughout. He tapped her head; she jolted, shooting him a glare. He shrugged. "What are you so focused on?"

She waddled towards the book, pointing her wing at a line: _Lohengrin the Fool_. She turned away, a disapproving look on her face, "Qua quack?!"

"_The Prince and The Raven _was written by D. D. Drosselmeyer," Fakir explained, resting his cheek on his hand and leaning on the desk, "He was a Spinner too, years and years ago, but no one knew who his Vessel was. He was… different from the usual Spinner. He revelled in tragedy, and rather than telling the tales of existing universes and leading them down the best possible path, he wrote new stories. It was unheard of, and he was seen as a genius for being the first to do so; there wasn't an issue with it as many considered that not all stories could be happy anyway. Eventually, people realised that his methods weren't the best and he lost popularity. Not that he cared."

He pulled the book towards him, brushing the words that Duck had pointed at. "Drosselmeyer was cruel to his characters. In Lohengrin's case, he sets him up to confess that he loves Tutu but never lets him do so, kills him off while he's defending her, and compared to some of his other descriptions hardly does his death justice. And Tutu… well, I'll leave that for when I finish reading the chapter."

He closed the book, pushing it away from him. Duck waddled after it and proceeded to fiercely peck at Drosselmeyer's name on the cover. Fakir chuckled. "You don't like him either, I see. Not many do, except those who admire his talent, which I can't deny he had. But," he pushed the chair back, picking up the book and sliding it underneath his bed before sitting on it, "I don't agree with his methods. Sappy stories that must have a happy endings I don't like either, but there should be some sort of balance. Drosselmeyer wrote tragedy for the sake of it, not to balance out the good things."

Duck fluttered down and onto her cushion, again burrowing into the blankets that Uzura had placed for her. Fakir leant over to blow out the lamp then laid down on the bed. He couldn't see her, but he could hear her shuffling around.

"You're a strange thing, aren't you."

"Quack!" she said defensively.

"Not in a bad way, though. It's easier to talk to a duck than it is to a person."

"Qua?"

"Good night, Duck."

"Qua quack."

* * *

He was in the grassy field again, except that this time he was laying on something that wasn't the ground. He grimaced as he realised that his head was in someone's lap.

There was a giggle above him; he recognised the girl's voice. He scowled up at her. "What's so funny?"

"Your face," she giggled, "You're scowling with your eyes closed, it looks really weird."

Fakir paused, absorbing the information. "You can see me?"

"Mhm." She shifted, causing his head to slip to the side. He braced himself, but she pushed him back into place, chiding him lightly, "Sit still or you'll fall off, Fakir."

"You're the one who- Wait, how do you know my name?"

"Oh!" she gasped, then stumbled over her words, "W-Well, I d-dunno, I just do, I-I guess, haha…"

He scowled at her again. "I'll let the lie slide for now. What's _your_ name? It's not fair that you can see me and everything and I get nothing."

She didn't answer straight away, hesitating. He heard a scratching sound. "Well…" she sighed in defeat, "It's Ahiru."

"Ahiru?" he repeated, as if testing the sounds, "That's an odd sounding name. Foreign?"

"Sort of."

"Ah."

They lapsed into silence. It was nice to know her name, though it still bothered him that he couldn't see her, if only to have some sort of image to attach to her voice. Her hands were small, that much was certain, and she seemed to be quite thin; he guessed that she was probably small in general, the kind of girl who could fit into tiny spaces. There was an odd rustling sound before something fell onto his face, making him sputter. It felt like hair.

"Oh, sorrysorrysorry!" Ahiru said rapidly, picking up what was evidently her hair on his face, "My hair's really long, like _really _long, it almost reaches the floor, though I guess that it isn't that long 'cuz I'm really short, but it's still long, and I threw it over my shoulder and it hit your face, and-"

"_Relax_." Fakir grabbed her hand, running his own along the strands. "I didn't know you were such a nervous girl. A braid?"

"Y-Yeah… And I'm always nervous, I'm really clumsy so I get embarrassed a lot. It was easier to talk to you before because I couldn't see you, qnd it's still somewhat easier since you can't see me yet, but still…"

"It really _is _long."

"That's what I just said!" she huffed, snatching the braid out of his hands.

"Idiot."

"Hey, that's-"

"Actually, how _can _you see me? You seem to know everything here. Are you some sort of weird dream spirit, because if you are you can leave right now."

"Gosh, you're so mean. No, I'm not a dream spirit, and when I woke up here I could open my eyes normally. I don't know why, it's weird. This is a dream for me too, you know."

"Is it really…" Fakir murmured, wondering what this was all about. First a storybook character falls into his world, then Uzura's shadow changes, then a voice appears in his head, then he meets a duck that understands, and now he was sharing a dream with a real person. His first instinct was the slap a hand across his forehead in frustration, but decided against it considering that Ahiru was watching him.

She hummed, but said nothing more. The silence stretched into minutes. The wind had stopped. Fakir knew that he was waking up.

"I think I need to go now," he ventured, wondering whether she had disappeared like the last time.

"I know," she replied quietly, "You're fading."

"Is that what it looks like when I wake up?"

"Seems like it. I am too."

There was a pause. Then, "Will I be able to see you again?"

She giggled, sounding nervous. "I thought you said I'm an idiot."

He smirked. "You are, but idiots can be fun to talk to, and this whole thing doesn't have an explanation yet."

"True," she hummed again, "I hope so, this is kind of fun in a mysterious way." She sounded like a giggly little girl. _What a kid_.

"I guess that's one way to describe it."

There was silence again. Fakir was starting to feel the bedsheets under his hands when Ahiru suddenly tapped his forehead.

"Fakir," she whispered; she was close, he could feel her breath across his forehead, "You need to let yourself go, you'll never be able to write with such a restricted mind. Open up."

Fakir tried to turn over, but her hands clutched tightly onto his shoulder. The sheets rustled beneath him. "Wha-"

"_Listen_," she said harshly; then, in a softer tone, "Do as I say, the only way to achieve what you must achieve is to open up and let it all _flow_, let it _spill_ from the page and onto the floor. Follow the feathers, they will guide you. You can do it, I believe in you."

It sounded final, like she was about to leave. Fakir turned sharply, falling off her lap and reaching for her arm. "No- Wait-!"

He fell longer than expected and landed on the floor with a resounding _thud_.

He was awake, and had evidently fallen off of his bed in his futile attempt to hold onto the dream; she had slipped through his fingers again. _What a cheeky girl._

"Quack?" it sounded worried. Lifting his head, he saw that Duck, bleary-eyed, was watching him. The room was still a little dark; it was much too early in the morning to be awake. She seemed to have been startled out of her sleep by his fall. He sighed.

Fakir stared at her. "_Follow the feathers, they will guide you." "Open up."_ Was this because he had told Duck that's she's easier to talk to than a person? It was true, of course, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. But, if it helped with his spinning… _I guess I could try to "open up", as she says. I can be honest with a duck. So long as I don't have to "open up" to a person. Though, this Ahiru seems to know much more than she lets on…_

With a jolt, he realised that Duck was still staring at him.

"Sorry for waking you. I… had a strange dream. I'm fine, you can go back to bed."

"Qua?"

He let his head fall onto the floor again, patting hers lightly with his bandaged hand. The wound was a little sore.

"I'll be okay."


	4. Chapter 4

The street was bustling with life, a nice distraction after all the drama of the last few days. Duck was perched on his left shoulder, peering around at all the different stalls. Fakir kept a tight hold on Uzura's hand, making sure to keep Mytho within sight. _Honestly, sometimes I feel like a parent with a bunch of kids_.

The stalls with their multicoloured cloth roofs were positively bursting with goods of all kinds; fresh fruit and vegetable, other kinds of organic produce, jewellery, flowers, handmade items of every shape and size, books, pens and paper. Almost anything could be found, if one had the patience to search every stall for what they sought.

"Quack?" Duck asked in his ear; the noise was almost deafening, he could hardly hear himself think.

He turned towards her. "It's the Sunday Market, loads of people set up stalls and sell all sorts for most of the day, they've been doing it for years!" he yelled over the din. He stopped as some children ran cut through the crowd in chase of a toy, tightening his hold on Uzura in case she decided to escape. Glancing down, he saw that her brows were furrowed in irritation; the look didn't last very long, however, as she screeched, "Look, look, pretty flowers-zura!" She tugged on his hand, dragging him towards the flower stand, which was fit to burst. "Mytho-zura! This way-zura!" she all but screamed over the babbling of the crowd. She elbowed her way through the people observing the flowers (Fakir vaguely wondered why she was only ever violent at the Market, she would never dream of elbowing a person anywhere else unless it was a particular sort of situation), reaching up to Fakir. He picked Duck up off his shoulder and placed her in Uzura's pale palms, watching as they turned away and started making lots of high-pitched noises while pointing at the different plants.

"The flowers are very pretty," Mytho commented politely to the man minding the stall. The man nodded.

"Yes, this lot's been quite plentiful; my wife's delighted with 'em, had to stop her from fillin' every bowl we own with flowers and puttin' them in every room in the house."

Fakir hummed, only half-listening as he watched Duck nudge some roses with her bill. Uzura poked them as well before moving on to the next flowers, squealing in girlish delight. He smiled slightly.

"Like the flowers, little missy?" the man said, strolling towards them, "Your pet duck seems to like 'em too, what's its name?"

"She's Duckie-zura!"

"Well then," the man began plucking random flowers from the large pots, forming a large bouquet in his hands, "how would you and Duckie like a flower crown each?"

Uzura squealed again, hopping from foot to foot while Duck flapped her wings in appreciation. "Ohhhh, can we, Fakir, can we-zura?!"

Fakir shrugged, "I don't see why not. Knock yourselves out."

"Yayyyy!" Uzura bounded towards the man, who had sat down on a stool and begun speedily twisting the stems with skilled hands. He worked fast, and soon enough Uzura's crown was done. He placed it on her head carefully, the bright colours contrasted with her hair's light mint and her eyes' deep purple.

"Now Duckie-zura!"

"As the missy commands," the man said, accompanied by a mock-salute. Uzura giggled, going cross-eyed trying to look at her crown.

Mytho stepped forwards, peering at the man's handiwork. "You're very good at it."

"What, this? My wife taught me, she used to make 'em as a girl all the time. She thought it'd be a popular idea, especially with young girls like the missy over there, and she was right."

"She sure was," Fakir said offhandedly, spotting several other flower crowns in the crowd. They certainly were quite appealing to the eye.

"And… done!"

"Duckie's crown-zura!" Uzura held Duck out to him; he placed the smaller crown on her head, making sure to dodge the large feather that seemed to permanently defy gravity. Duck quacked happily, waving a wing at him in thanks. He tipped his hat at her before walking away to attend to other customers. Fakir handed Uzura some coins, which she promptly deposited in the man's hands before waving.

Duck fluttered onto his shoulder again, nudging his cheek with her bill. She gestured to her crown.

"It looks good," he said loudly. Mytho nodded.

"She's a cute little duck, so I'm not surprised."

"I don't think you _can _be surprised, Mytho."

"No, but I can find things unexpected, which is like surprise. It's an odd sort of feeling."

"Feeling, he says."

"Oh, quiet."

Fakir turned away, reaching for Uzura's hand and hiding his smile. Despite the altercation of the previous night, Mytho seemed completely back to normal (or as normal as he could be, given his situation), and seemed to have forgotten their little spat. Fakir was grateful; he didn't have time for extra drama.

They continued through the crowd, peering at the different stalls as much as they could between all the people bustling around them. Fakir spied a stall with books; he made a sharp beeline towards it, but stopped in his tracks when he saw Autor, standing behind the counter with his nose in a book of his own. Mytho paused next to him, catching on immediately.

"Hey, Uzura, do you want something to eat? There's some nice-looking pastries at the stall over there," Mytho intervened, taking Uzura's hand.

"Where-zura? I can't see-_ooh!_" she shrieked as Mytho lifted her suddenly onto his shoulders. She kicked her legs in childish glee, bouncing up and down. "I see it-zura! Let's go-zura! Duckie-zura?"

Duck shook her head, patting Fakir's shoulder. Mytho edged between the crowd and disappeared almost immediately; only Uzura's bobbing head was visible above the crowd, flowers like bright lights in the sun. Fakir ducked through the gaps between people, emerging next to the bookstore. Autor had not noticed him yet.

He picked up one of the books, idly flicking through. "Hello, Autor."

Autor's glasses wobbled as he jolted, though he quickly righted himself, throwing Fakir a scathing glance. "What makes you think it's okay to go sneaking up on- Oh." He had caught sight of Duck. He stared at her. She raised a wing, quacking cheerily.

"This is Duck," Fakir answered, poking the large feather atop her head and straightening the flower crown absentmindedly, "And before you comment, the name was Uzura's idea."

"Hm," Autor huffed; clearly he had been looking forward to demonstrating his "superior intellect", though Fakir doubted his comment could be considered intellectual. "So, have you done any spinning yet?"

"I thought you volunteered at the library."

"I'll take that as a no. And, if you must know, the library gives away books when they restock with newer copies, though not always. These are the ones that have the endings ripped out and such, so they're quite old. The newer copies don't print the old endings to begin with."

Fakir nodded. "Ripped-out endings, huh…"

Autor snapped his book shut, picking up a worn copy of _The Prince and The Raven_. "Yes; these are the ones you'll be dealing with. I, for one, doubt you'll be able to handle it; he may have been insane, but Herr Drosselmeyer was a genius of spinning."

"I can't disagree. But he didn't actually spin much… Most of his works are just normal writing. Why?"

"No one knows, really… He was an odd sort. The Book Men really hated him, since he tried to manipulate reality as well as other worlds through stories."

Fakir almost dropped the book in shock, "He did?"

"That he did."

The new speaker was a short, old man in a cloak who was standing behind Autor. Fakir recognised him as the leader of the Book Men, though he did not know his name.

Fakir frowned at him, "What are _you _doing here?"

"We Book Men run the library, young _Spinner_," the man spat the word as if it were an insult, "And yes, Drosselmeyer attempted to bend reality to his will. That was why my ancestors put a stop to him, and tore out the endings of his stories, so that someday another Spinner would correct his mistakes. Unfortunately, no one has done so until now."

Fakir's grip tightened around the book he was holding, "Why did no one tell me this before? That explains why Mytho's here, and it would help if I knew what exactly I'm supposed to be-"

"You must find that out for yourself," the old man snapped, "It is your job-"

"No, _you _don't trust me because I'm Drosselmeyer's direct descendent, unlike Autor here who is a distant relation," Fakir growled.

The old man crossed his arms, "Maybe so, but it matters not. The _point _is that, as a Spinner, you must fix the chaos that Drosselmeyer created somehow, and end all of his stories once and for all. The prince's presence here and within your life is proof of that. You must find your Vessel, and quickly."

"Whatever, it would have saved a lot of time if you'd have told me this _from the start_-"

"You insolent-!"

"QUACK!" Duck screeched suddenly, flapping noisily towards the old man and diving into his cloak. He shrieked shrilly, trying to shake her off; she had bitten his hand. A small axe slammed into the ground.

"Get this thing — _ow! _— off me at-!"

Fakir stumbled forwards, grabbing Duck, who immediately released the old man's hand at the contact. He held her tightly to his chest; she glanced warily at the axe on the ground before burying her face in his shirt.

The old man wrung his injured hand, "You should control that thing-!"

"_That_ _thing_'s name is Duck," Fakir snarled, "and you deserve it. Just _try_ to cut off my hands; even without them I'll make sure to wring your neck. Good day to you." And with a nod in Autor's direction, he turned sharply and walked straight into the crowd.

Duck was trembling in his arms. He stroked her back, murmuring what he hoped were words of comfort; she was clearly terrified, and for good reason. Her bravery had only lasted long enough for her to bite the old man's hand; after that, instinct had kicked in completely. He was about to thank her when he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Autor.

Autor coughed into his fist nervously. "Sorry about that. Those old men tend to get a little jittery, especially when talking about Drosselmeyer…"

"I appreciate the apology, but I don't care-"

"However," Autor interrupted him, looking smug. Fakir glared, "I actually wanted to give you these." He handed Fakir two books; both old, worn, and with the end pages messily ripped out. "They're the most updated copies of Drosselmeyer's stories, the ones that were spun rather than just written. These are the ones you have to deal with."

"Only two?" Fakir mumbled, turning them over. One, of course, was _The Prince and The Raven_. The other… "Drosselmeyer did _not_ write _The Ugly Duckling_."

Autor nodded, looking smug again. Fakir sighed inwardly; it was his "I-am-cleverer-than-you-and-about-to-prove-it" face. "True, but that's not the one you're thinking of. _This _one's completely different; the term "ugly" doesn't necessarily mean unpleasant to look at, at least not in this scenario, but I'll leave that for you to find out." Autor turned away to leave.

Fakir called him back, "One more thing, Autor. Why do these stories _really_ not have endings anymore? You can't get rid of them simply by ripping out paper."

Autor hesitated. He glanced in the direction of the Book Men's stall, before sighing in defeat. "Drosselmeyer used his stories to try to affect reality, Fakir. Mytho's presence here is proof of that. The slightest difference in the original story can completely change how it ends; that is why you must guide everything towards the true ending. The pages are ripped out because there's no point in them being there."

"But Drosselmeyer did that years ago-"

"He spun it so that it would happen now, though, that's just how it was all set up. He wrote it that way, and so it is. We can't do anything but fix it." With that, he left.

Fakir stood rooted to the ground, wondering when everything had become so darn complicated.

* * *

"And then, and then, Mytho spun me in the air and I went zooooooom, but I dropped my bun so he had to buy me another one-zura!" Uzura said animatedly. She was telling Duck (a while later) what had transpired when she and Mytho had disappeared to retrieve pastries. Duck quacked in appreciation. Mytho and Fakir were walking behind them; the crowd had thinned considerably (it had been a good idea to wait in the nearby park for a while) and it was much easier to navigate, and, more importantly, to keep track of little girls and their pet ducks.

Fakir had told Mytho what had transpired at the book stall. He had frowned throughout the story, and his eyes had narrowed considerably at the mention of the axe, but he had said nothing because, as he rightly put it, "I have nothing much to say". The answer had sufficed, however, and now they walked in contemplative silence. Duck was, fortunately, much calmed down.

On the other hand, Fakir was not; if anything, he was even more nervous than before. He was struggling to absorb and comprehend all the new information that had been forcefully thrown at him (true, he had asked, but still), most of which didn't seem to make any sense at all. The biggest question was, _how can a dead man still be controlling things, and why haven't any Spinners been able to fix things before now? Drosselmeyer was alive a couple centuries ago; lots of Spinners have been chosen since._ _Then, why?_

And, as usual, his mind was not helping. There was no voice to cryptically answer him, and the only thing his brain seemed capable of conjuring was the image of a long braid and the sound of a laugh like a bell, and the shadows of golden feathers. He honestly felt like kicking himself in the head (a shame he couldn't reach, really).

His thoughts, as usual, were interrupted by a loud, excited, "_Zura!_"

Uzura dashed to the left, disappearing into a group of people. _God, she should bring her drum to Sunday Market, it'd be perfect._ Fakir and Mytho ran around them, spotting Uzura and Duck sifting through bracelets at a jeweller's stall. Fakir chuckled quietly to himself. _Of course_.

Duck was waddling on the table, nudging interesting items with her bill so that Uzura would notice them. In turn, and quite conveniently though not on purpose, Uzura uttered a shrill squeak every time she too noticed something interesting. The jeweller, whom Fakir recognised and knew well, was watching them with amused intrigue.

"Fakir, Mytho," she greeted. Fakir was secretly glad that she was behind the stall, therefore unable to try and kiss him.

"Hello, Raetsel," Mytho answered, poking a pearl necklace, "This stuff looks expensive."

"Not so much." There was a cheeky glint in her eye as she pushed a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear. "The supplies are good quality and look expensive, but they're actually pretty cheap, considering. My supplier is _marvelous_."

Fakir raised an eyebrow suggestively, "In more ways than one, apparently."

Raetsel turned beet red, "Fakir! I've already told you, there is _nothing_ between Hans and I."

"Sure, sure, whatever you say." Fakir usually wasn't the type to tease, but… _there's no way I'm missing this chance when that's all she ever does to me._

"_So_," Raetsel continued stiffly; Fakir smirked inwardly, "Who's your friend?"

"It's Duckie-zura!" Uzura cheered, "Duck for short-zura!"

Fakir rolled his eyes while Raetsel giggled, "If you say so. Nice to meet you, Duck." She held her wing lightly between her fingers and shook it as if it were a hand. Duck quacked appreciatively. "She seems mighty intelligent, for a duck."

Mytho nodded, "Yeah, we're still trying to figure that one out."

Raetsel hummed, watching Duck shimmy through stands from which necklaces of differing lengths. "You should get her a chain or something, Fakir, so you know it's her if she gets lost. Ducks can be hard to differentiate from each other."

Fakir blinked; he hadn't thought of that.

"Anything you like, Duck?"

Duck glanced around, eyeing everything curiously but clearly not particularly interested in- No, she had found something. She waddled to the far side of the table, where two necklaces hung next to each other. The first was shaped like a water droplet, semi-transparent with a clear-blue tone that matched closely with her eyes. The second was a simple chain with two pendants, both deep jade; the first, a small leaf; the second, a four-leaf clover. Both were highly detailed for their small size, the stems clearly visible in a silvery colour. She seemed to be deciding between the two.

"Oh, I love those," Raetsel commented, shifting her stool closer to Duck and resting her chin in her palm, "They both suit you quite well, I think, though the blue one matches your eyes."

Duck nodded slowly, looking between them with her head tilted slightly to the side.

Uzura leant forward to better see. "They're both cute-zura…"

Mytho nodded, "Yes, but I have to agree with Raetsel; personally I'd choose the blue one."

Duck turned to Fakir, as if also seeking his opinion. He shrugged. "It's up to you."

She watched him for a beat longer, before swivelling around and jumping towards the jade pendants. Raetsel laughed good-naturedly. "This one, then?"

Duck nodded vigorously, watching Raetsel attentively as she slowly detached the necklace from its stand and fastened it around her neck.

"Qua!" she sounded almost giddy as she flapped her wings, almost sending some rings flying. She quacked quietly in apology before flying towards Uzura, whose hands were held out expectantly.

"Ohhhh-zura! I like it-zura!" Uzura's eyebrows furrowed as she blinked owlishly. She looked between the pendants and Fakir, who raised an eyebrow at her in question. Then she gasped dramatically, "They look just like Fakir's eyes-zura!"

Fakir blinked. Mytho and Raetsel leant forwards to see for themselves, also looking between the pendants and Fakir, before nodding matter-of-factly. Fakir made a face.

"She's not even mine, she's Uzura's."

"In that case," Raetsel clapped her hands together; Fakir sighed - a "brilliant idea" was surely on the way, "I have a brilliant idea!" _Knew it._

She rummaged in a wooden crate, which was full of spare items in different sizings, before holding a small pouch up with a victorious "Aha!". She shook it; a small bracelet fell into her hand.

"Come here, Uzura," she commanded haughtily. Uzura giggled, holding out her wrist. Fakir peered at the bracelet. The string was very, very thin, and made of leather; the only adorning feature was the small silver duck that decorated it near the clasp. Fakir couldn't help but snort; it looked almost exactly like Duck, large feather sticking up and all.

Mytho voiced his thoughts, "It looks exactly like her, where did you get it?"

Raetsel shrugged, "I found it this morning, actually. It was just there, on the table, when I was setting up. Mighty coincidence, if you ask me."

Fakir didn't hear the rest of the conversation. His eyes were captured by Uzura's shadow, which had looked normal ever since they had found Duck, but which was now stretching out under the table and standing behind Raetsel, tilting its head left and right like an odd pendulum. He kept his face blank so as to not give himself away.

"You _do not think it is a coincidence, do you, young Spinner?"_ Fakir jolted; he had not expected to hear the voice ever again. He couldn't help but feel mildly relieved; _I did feel kind of lonely on my own, though I'd never admit it._

"_You forget that I can hear you,"_ the voice laughed; Fakir inwardly blushed. "_But you are not alone, are you?"_

_What?_

"_The feathered one. And… Ahiru."_

Fakir did not reply, eyes widening as two pieces tumbled into place. He stared at the shadow, who stood very, very still. _You're the shadow._

The voice hummed in response, "_Well done, Spinner. Two pieces are now in place, the rest are scattered, some out of sight. What will you do?"_

It was a rhetorical question; the voice faded into silence. Fakir continued to stare at the shadow. Then, slowly, his eyes slid over the group of figures in front of him; Uzura, waving her wrist to show off her new bracelet, flower crown wobbling precariously, curiosity and wisdom merged into one; Raetsel, motherly smile, all warmth and love and playful teasing, autumn and thick wool and shining pearls; Mytho, tall, regal, an invisible sword at his hip, amber eyes gazing pleasantly, the fairytale prince with the face of an angel; Duck, small, watching, pitifully weak but terribly, terribly, _terribly_ strong, almost like a person inside a duck's body-

Everything slowed, quieted into a deafening, consuming silence around him. The shadow slowly turned, twisted, and bled into the ground, shrinking to the size of a little girl. The pieces that had previously tumbled burst apart, leaving dents in the walls. More pieces fell, from the sky, from the earth, from nowhere, spinning and spinning in the air. The memories flitted like fireflies across Fakir's eyes.

"_Let it all _flow_, let it _spill _from the page and onto the floor."_

His eyes focused on the little, yellow-feathered duck sitting on the table in front of him. Slowly, he looked down at the books in his hands. The faded lettering screamed at him.

_The Ugly Duckling_.

Fakir's world burst into flames as he hopelessly clung to the frayed edges of their small, insignificant happiness.

* * *

That night, he did not dream of grassy fields and voices without faces, or braids without colour.

He dreamt of swirling amber eyes, cawing ravens, little girls with noisy drums, and a still duck floating on a lake's clear surface.


	5. Chapter 5

"She can't come."

"But, _Fakir-zura!_"

"No."

"Pretty pleaaaaase-zura?"

"No."

"Pretty please with sugar on top-zura?!"

"No!"

"WILL YOU BOTH BE QUIET?!" Karon finally yelled over them. They fell immediately silent. "Much better."

Duck quacked apologetically. Karon shook his head at her. "No, it's not your fault, Duck. These two are like a bunch of children."

"But, Uzura-"

"I said _quiet_."

Fakir snapped his mouth shut, biting his retort and his wounded pride before it escaped. It was Monday, which meant school, which meant Uzura was to stay at home, which meant that although she wanted to play with Duck she _also _wanted Duck to know what school was like. It also meant that Karon wasn't going to get a moment's peace _all day_.

Mytho watched the spectacle with mild curiosity on his face. _He _certainly knew what school was like, so that wasn't an issue, but he was finding the whole thing mighty entertaining (as much as a heartless person can). Fakir glared at him. Mytho shrugged back.

"It's not like I _want _to go to school," he started warily, throwing a glance in Karon's direction, who gave him the evil-eye but said nothing. He continued with more confidence, "I'd take her if I could, at least then I'd have some company."

"You talk as if you don't have friends-zura."

"I don't."

"Yes you do-zura! Those girls are very nice-zura."

Fakir almost choked on his breakfast, but said nothing. Trust Uzura to think that his "fangirls", as Raetsel described them, were his friends. Their conversations sometimes provided mild entertainment, but that was about as far as it went.

Considering the conversation over, he scraped his chair back, hastily shoving bread in his mouth before hurrying around the kitchen. He wasn't in a rush, and he generally enjoyed taking his time, but not today. Today, he needed space to think. There was a lot to think about.

He grabbed his bag, yelling a quick "I'm going!" before jogging out the door. Faintly, he could hear Karon chiding Uzura for trying to get up from the table without having finished, and had to contain his smile. Karon was a kind man, but he certainly knew when to draw the line.

"QU_A-!_"

The noise made him swivel around. Duck was fluttering down from his bedroom window, tilting a little to the side as she lost her balance. She landed roughly, quacks muffled by the ground. In her beak she held his quill. Shaking herself and ruffling her feathers haughtily, she waddled towards him, stopping and dropping the quill at his feet. "Qua!"

He crouched, picking it up from the floor and holding it out to her. "I appreciate it, but I don't need it. I don't write stories at school, spun or otherwise."

Her face contorted into what looked like a frown; again, he had to contain his smile. She quacked angrily at him and stomped her webbed foot.

"You can stomp all you want; I _can't wri_\- Hh!"

Fakir bit down his yell just as Duck but down on his hand. It didn't really hurt, it had been more surprise than anything. Fakir looked down at her, eye twitching slightly. She stared defiantly back.

He couldn't understand why she bothered him so much about writing. She hardly knew him; only on the first day she was already huffing whenever he said that he couldn't write. _She really is an idiot_.

She released his hand and shoved it back towards him. He sighed. "Fine. I'll take it with me. That doesn't mean I'll write though." _I'm already making excuses for myself and I haven't even tried. I really am pathetic._

She pulled a face, but nodded. He stood, dusted himself off, and turned to leave again.

"Quack!"

"What now?"

She was pointing at her pendants; specifically, the four-leaf clover. Fakir blinked.

"Qua quack!" It sounded happy again.

He stared at the jade clover hanging from her neck, and at the tips of the feathers that were pointing at it. _Luck_.

He turned, waving slowly. This time, he did smile.

* * *

True, their conversation was generally irritating, but sometimes it was just a little entertaining, and it made a good backdrop for thinking - it was easy to tune out. Fakir listened vaguely; at that moment, they seemed crossed between "I've heard he can't write at all, despite being a Spinner" and "but just _look_ at his _face_". _Girls are strange creatures, indeed._

_Speaking of strange girls_… Ahiru again wandered into his mind. Of all the pieces that existed, she was the one most out of place. They met in dreams, sometimes, and she seemed to know exactly what was going on… but she hadn't always known. In the first dream, her eyes were also closed, or so she said. By the second, she knew his name, and he still couldn't even see her. She knew about Duck, she knew he was a Spinner, and she knew that he couldn't write. And what did he know? He knew she was a girl, that her name was Ahiru, and that her hair was very long and in a braid. He mentally scowled at her. He didn't like being kept in the dark.

For the millionth time since the incident at the market, he tried to string his thoughts together.

The voice and the shadow were the same person - check. Whoever it was seemed to know exactly what was going on and also seemed to be trying to guide him - check. The person seemed to have something to do with Uzura - possibly. He hadn't met his Helper/Vessel yet, and therefore couldn't write - reluctant check. Mytho came from _The Prince and The Raven_ \- check. Duck came from _The Ugly Duckling_… to be confirmed.

The strings frayed (again) and everything fell apart. What was more frustrating was that it would not be difficult to find out the answers to his questions; the book was sitting on his desk, in his room, waiting to be opened.

He had just been too much of a coward to do it.

_There's a good reason for that_, he had told himself last night. Supposedly, there was. This was Drosselmeyer he was dealing with; where Drosselmeyer spun, tragedy inevitably followed. That meant that everything he knew would be shredded to pieces, and everyone close to him would be caught in the storm. Mytho was part of it, Duck was part of it, Uzura seemed to be part of it; heck, even _Raetsel_ was somehow part of it. And of course, everything fell to him to fix the whole mess.

Because he was a Spinner.

_Autor should've been chosen_, Fakir thought bitterly. _He would've been perfect for the job. Knows everything, has been working up to it for years, isn't Drosselmeyer's descendent so is trusted more easily, and he applied for the job. I was on the list by accident._

How was he to spin everything to its perfect ending if he couldn't even write anything normally, let alone _spin_? Even the inkwell, the magical inkwell that new Spinners used to get them started, wasn't working. Sure, his blood turned into ink, but it was completely _useless_! It was thick, it was blotchy, and it was impossible to write with. If an inkwell that was specially made centuries ago for the sole purpose of doing a Helper's job until a Spinner arrived couldn't help him, what would? His Helper, or Vessel, or whatever? Mytho, Uzura? Magical fairy dust?

A duck who clearly wasn't just a duck? A girl in a dream who he couldn't see? _That's the sappiest thing I've ever heard._

It was hopeless. He'd tried going to the library, but every book which seemed useful had ripped-out endings; Drosselmeyer's normal stories, which had been torn apart to be safe. He'd tried locking himself up in his room for hours on end, not moving from his desk except for necessities, forcing himself to write and write scribbles and inconsequential gibberish. With the inkwell, without it, with blood, without it, with company, without it, inside, outside, in the day, in the night, everything blurred into one long, drawn out failure.

And in the midst of everything, despite all the obvious reasons why everything that was happening wasn't necessarily his _fault_ (he couldn't help it if he couldn't spin… could he?), there was always the nagging, burning, consuming feeling that it was his fault, that he was useless, pathetic, that he was… that he didn't deserve…

…he didn't really know anymore.

Everything slowed, quieted into a deafening, consuming silence around him.

He was very, very tired.

The answer was simple, really. Read the book. Know all the facts and all the necessary information. Spin a story into reality. Tie all the loose ends.

Why, then, was it proving so difficult before he had even begun? Because, deep down, he knew that this was the easiest part. This was Drosselmeyer, the harbinger of death and tragedy. There would be fighting, there would be pain, there would be tears, there would be a thousand things more. The beginning, the prologue, the first page, was the simplest, the bit in the story where everything was explained, where the world was slowly pulled apart and then stitched back together with careful hands, before slowly pulling on the threads and bunching the fabric of their lives. That was where they were now, between the folds, waiting for the second set of stitches to arrive to sew everything into its new place.

Because stories, or worlds, or _life_, was like a patchwork quilt. The newest bits weren't always the prettiest, and the prettiest weren't always stitched as tightly. Some bits needed double-stitching, and others needed thicker thread. Some bits frayed and slowly fell away. Sometimes new bits needed to be added. But, in the end, it was less about what it looked like as a whole and more about what each bit meant, and those who helped put it together.

Fakir blinked. _That was a little too deep for my liking. I think I'm channeling the voice with a sprinkle of Raetsel. _

A slow poke in his arm jolted him out of his reverie. He looked up; a group of girls were huddled to his right, peering at him and looking shocked.

The one who had poked him stuttered nervously, "S-S-Sorry if I w-woke you up! I thought you might have been asleep, and, well… It's t-time for class n-n-n-now! Hehe…" She fumbled with her fingers, looking to her friends for support, who all looked quite flabbergasted.

He blinked up at them, wondering how he hadn't heard them approach. "I wasn't asleep. Thanks, I didn't hear the bell."

There was a beat of silence, before they erupted into nervous giggles. Fakir raised an eyebrow. They hurried off, stuttering shrill goodbyes and giggling giddily. He watched them retreat with mild amusement. They were very irritating most of the time, but he _did_ appreciate the gesture, and they didn't harm anyone (except sometimes his hearing with their high-pitched shrieks). He sighed, shaking his head at their antics before following after them to his next class.

* * *

Class was boring. He wished the girls had let him sleep.

He didn't know many people at his school. He knew their names, but next to nothing about them, so he didn't really have "friends", as such. Autor; he sometimes mildly argued with him. Hermia; she was nice and enjoyed practising "gauging feelings" on him, because, supposedly, "he was very good at hiding them". Everyone else… nothing. A huge, very round zero.

But even those two could not help him now. He was quite sure that Autor, aside from reading books _all day_, also ate books, slept with books, and in the few hours that he practised with a piano probably either sat on a book or set up a little book-audience to observe his "magnificent skill with the keys". And Hermia… she was more normal, and she did have days where her mind clearly wandered (he could almost see the cloud floating above her head), but today was not one of those days; she did glance back at him every so often with a small smile, but did little more to decrease his boredom level.

The teacher cleared his throat loudly; the girls who sat near him fell into a strangled silence as they tried to contain their giggles. One of them was holding a bright pink envelope, decorated garishly with hearts and ribbons, and addressed to someone who's name he vaguely recognised from another class. She was wringing it in her hands; Fakir wondered idly whether it would make it to the recipient somewhat unscathed. Apparently not: the edges of the envelope were ripping a little. For the second time that day, he shook his head at their antics.

Tracing the patterns in the wood of his desk, he ticked off possible things he could do. He nudged the quill he used at school; simple, grey, and small. The image of a duck falling from a bedroom window fluttered into his mind. Slowly, he reached into his bag, gripping the edges of his personal quill, the one he used for writing stories (or tried to). He carefully pulled it out and slid it onto his desk, but was met by an odd sight.

The quill he used for writing stories was white, much larger than his school quills and more comfortable in his hands. The quill in front of him was _bright yellow_\- No, it wasn't even a quill. It was just a feather; a duck feather.

Fakir mentally scowled at her. _Idiot. How am I supposed to write with a feather she probably plucked two seconds before giving to me?_ _She's impossible_. It struck him slightly how he thought of her as if she were a person; no matter how intelligent, a duck was still a duck. But he, somehow, thought of her as a person trapped in a duck's body. He tapped the end of the feather against the desk experimentally, then tried swirling it around. It was much too blunt. He sighed. _This is impossible._

Twirling the feather in his hand, he wondered what had possessed her to do such a thing. Duck-feather quills were common, yes, but he already had one, and she knew it; she'd seen him writing and quacked at him for not writing more. All she ever did was quack at him to write more, to spin more. _I guess it's supposed to be like some sort of present. I believe in you, so here's a feather of mine to prove it. Wouldn't it hurt to pluck your own-_

"Ahem," the teacher coughed pointedley. Fakir looked up at him, automatically feigning surprise at whatever he was going to be told (it would be hard though, he was sitting twirling a bright yellow feather and his other quill had not even been dipped in ink). The teacher raised an eyebrow, and slowly said, "Fakir… your sister is standing outside the window."

Fakir blinked. There was an immediate scuffling as everyone collectively tried to peer at the little girl outside the window. Fakir clenched his fist so as to not slap his palm against his face; _I_ told _her to stay at home!_

Scraping his chair back, he slowly edged between the desks, towards the window where he could see the mint-green hair that no doubt belonged to Uzura. He unlocked the latch, and pulled it open, scowling down at her.

She smiled up at him shyly, looking everywhere but at him, "H-Hi, Fakir-zura…"

Duck raised a wing in greeting. "Qua!"

In the classroom, various exclamations of "Ooh, a duck!" could be heard, which he ignored as said duck fluttered onto his shoulder, poking his cheek with her bill as if in apology. Uzura stared at the ground in shame, making circular motions with her foot. Fakir sighed; it was impossible to be angry with either of them. Instead, he leant out and hoisted her swiftly into his arms, earning a few squeaks of glee from his female classmates. The teacher shook his head.

"This really can't go on, Fakir."

"I know, I told her to stay at home. Sorry."

The teacher sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Well, make sure it doesn't happen again."

"Yes, sir. I'll take her home now."

"Yes… take Hermia with you."

Fakir raised his eyebrows. The teacher (whose name he really should know by now) gave him a pointed look. "I can't have students coming and going as they please. The Class Rep with accompany you."

Fakir sighed again, but said nothing. The mutterings increased in volume as Hermia followed after him, soliciting a sharp "Quiet!" from the teacher as well as a few smacks against the chalkboard with a ruler. Uzura winced at the noise before Hermia closed the door.

He glared down at her. She wriggled nervously in his arms.

"How many times-"

"But I wanted to show Duckie the school-zura!"

Depositing her on the ground, he walked again with a "hmph!", Duck still happily perched on his shoulder. He gave her a sidelong glance. "You're not off the hook either," he muttered. She narrowed her eyes, quacking quietly back as if uttering a retort. He rolled his eyes.

Hermia and Uzura jogged up next to him. Hermia was giggling quietly into her palm. "You have an odd family, Fakir."

"Hm. Guess so."

"But you can't stay angry at them."

He scowled at her. She skipped a little ahead of him. "I'm getting good at this!"

"Really."

"Mhm! Quite proud of myself, I must say."

"Good for you."

"Oh, someone's sour."

He scowled at her again. She beamed back.

The walk home wasn't particularly long, but it wasn't particularly short either. Fakir absentmindedly wondered where Mytho had gotten to; usually, he watched over Uzura while he was at school and Karon was working, since he had nothing much better to do. Said little girl had joined Hermia in skipping ahead; the sight was strange without her drum somehow attached to her, he wondered where that had ended up too. Duck remained on his shoulder, looking rather pensive (for a duck).

"By the way," he mumbled; he didn't want Hermia to hear him talking to Duck - she was good at heart, really, but sometimes irritatingly curious (he wondered whether Raetsel was paying her to fetch "good info"), "I appreciate you giving me a feather and all, but I can't write with it. It hasn't even been sharpened, and it'd be even easier with a metal tip. You should've given it to Karon first."

Duck blinked, quirking her head slightly.

"It's blunt. It's not a quill, it's just a feather."

She blinked again, before her face contorted into what looked like a frown. Then she promptly wriggled around on his shoulder and turned her back on him, instead choosing to look behind them, feather bobbing haughtily. He raised an eyebrow.

"It's not like it was on purpose."

She quacked once.

"I still like it, really."

She quacked again.

_Why I'm trying to make a duck feel better, I'll never understand. _He paused, glancing around furtively. Then he whispered, "Do you really think I can write?"

She turned slightly at that, eyeing him, before nodding slowly.

"...Do you think I can spin stories?"

She blinked. Fakir held his breath. He didn't know why it felt like everything hung in this moment, but it did, and for once in his life he was going to face his problems (or at least try to). Everything hung in this moment, because he was a coward at heart, and even a _duck _needed to reassure him. _Pathetic._

She nodded. He let the breath go.

"Why?"

She pulled a face, swaying from side to side and quacking quietly. She seemed disappointed.

_This_, Fakir thought glumly, _is why I think she's human on the inside. She displays human feelings and intelligence, and she can read. And she feels unable to communicate what she thinks. Maybe, this one, small, insignificant thing… maybe I can do something about it. A duck is a duck. A duck doesn't amount to much in the end. Maybe, if I start with something this tiny, I can learn to spin properly._ His thoughts wandered to the book, _The Ugly Duckling_.

_The answers lie in the book. But therein also lies the beginning of… disaster, I guess. But the only way to end it is to start, and I have to start somewhere…_

As usual, things were difficult, but he reluctantly promised himself that he'd at least read the book that night, and, if the universe was lucky, he would look into the original ending. He patted her head; she leant into his hand. She shuffled around on his shoulder, facing forwards again. He smirked. "I win."

She quacked (it somehow sounded like a tut, _again_), narrowing her eyes before shrugging her shoulders. Her pendants glinted in the sunlight, casting green lights across her feathers.

"Uzura, there you are!"

It was Karon; they were home and he had just run out of the front door, hands covered in soot. Ignoring the inevitable stains, he whisked Uzura into his arms and playfully poked her shoulder. She giggled nervously. Karon tutted at her before turning to them.

"And there's Duck. Sorry about this, Fakir. I can't keep an eye on them all the time, and I don't know for the life of me where Mytho's gotten to. You too, Hermia; sorry."

Hermia waved a hand. "That's okay; we get a free break from class."

"The _Class Rep_ shouldn't be saying that," Fakir chided, imitating their teacher. Hermia stuck her tongue out at him. She swayed on the balls of her feet.

"Well then, guess we should get going now."

"Yes, please do," Karon agreed, "I don't want you both getting told off."

They both nodded, before turning and walking away.

"Bye, Karon, Uzura!"

"Wait-zura! Duckie-zura!"

Fakir started; he had forgotten that she was still perched on his shoulder. He shrugged it, soliciting angry quacks and a wing in the face as she fluttered down. He sputtered, wrinkling his nose. "Whatever. I'll see you all later."

"Bye-bye-zura!"

The walk back was much quieter; Hermia knew when it was time to talk and when it wasn't.

(Most of the time).

"So… how's the spinning going?"

Fakir glared at her. She giggled. "That won't work on me, Fakir. I'm _immune_. Don't avoid the inevitable."

He blinked at her, the frown melting from his face completely. _How does she know?_

She waggled a finger at him. "You should know by now that I know _everything_. A little birdie told me that your spinning isn't going very well."

He said nothing, instead looking straight ahead. She took the silence as an affirmative.

"You should believe in yourself more, Fakir. Everyone believes you can do it."

"No they don't," he answered automatically before snapping his mouth shut. She beamed at him.

"Good, good! Talking about it is the best way to start." She hummed. "They do, though. You just don't feel that way, but they do."

"They try to convince me that it'll all be fine and that I won't need to spin. Uzura doesn't talk about it at all, and Mytho's told me that I've done nothing at all so far, and he's…" he paused, searching for the words, "noble and proper and cordial. If he says it, it means it's true. The Book Men don't even trust me because I'm Drosselmeyer's descendent, and they don't tell me everything I need to know unless I expressly ask. I keep getting information in pieces."

Hermia frowned. "What you need, Fakir," she said carefully, "is for someone to believe in you, that you can write about."

"You mean a Hel- A Vessel."

"Not necessarily. I don't mean spinning, I mean _writing_. You don't think you can write either. But that's just all in your head." She looked upwards, towards the sky. "You can do it if you believe in yourself, and if there's a person who believes in you unconditionally. Isn't there someone you _really_ want to do something for?"

"I don't get it."

"You can't write about Drosselmeyer's stories because it's your obligation and you're scared to mess it up. Have you tried writing about something else?"

"Yeah, I tried writing about Karon and Uzura and Raetsel-"

"But that was random writing. You need to write about something you really want to happen, someone you want to help," she threw him a sidelong glance, "Someone… It's hard to explain. You just have to feel it deep inside, I guess. If I had to say… The person who spurs you to take the step forward is the person you should write about."

They had reached the classroom door. Hermia gripped the handle, half-turning to him before opening.

"I saw the feather."

And with that, she pulled the door open and walked into the classroom, leaving him standing in the doorway, staring after her.

As usual, Hermia knew too much for her own good.

* * *

Mytho was much closer than anyone thought. It was a wonder that no one had found him (or maybe gloved handiwork).

He was, quite simply, in Fakir's bedroom.

True, he had been looking after Uzura and Duck. But they were good girls, and didn't need that much looking after, so he had taken to glancing around. And Fakir's open window had caught his eye.

So there he was. He wasn't quite sure what had dragged him there; what could possibly be of interest to him? True, he did want to know what the original ending of _The Prince and The Raven_ had been, but he knew that it was hidden away somewhere, somewhere only Fakir and Uzura knew where to find it. It didn't bother him that much though; he knew it was for a good cause, and it didn't _really_ matter because it wasn't reality anymore. But that was the only thing that he could possibly want from Fakir-

He looked down at the book gripped in his hand. It was dark blue in colour, with faded gold lettering swirling elegantly along the cover. _The Ugly Duckling_, it was called. When had he picked it up? He couldn't remember. He let the book fall open, noting the ripped pages at the end. _A book of Drosselmeyer's; a spun story. Does Fakir need to fix this one, too?_ The amount of pages ripped out seemed to have been almost a third of the book, so the rest of them bent awkwardly as he flicked through. Nothing in it seemed to be particularly relevant to him. He tossed it back onto the desk, and walked out.

He didn't notice that he'd forgotten to close the book. He didn't notice the original copy of _The Prince and The Raven_ under Fakir's bed. And he didn't notice the shadow hanging over the doorway.


End file.
